Chapter 9
Pauline
I woke to sunlight streaming through my curtains and the distant sound of Meatball howling at something—probably a squirrel, possibly a leaf, potentially his own reflection. The dog had opinions about everything and wasn’t shy about sharing them.
For a moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the events of last night reassemble themselves in my head. The abandoned building. The men. Jack’s face when he came through that door.
I pressed my palms against my eyes and groaned.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then again.
Then a third time in rapid succession, which meant either the world was ending or Claudette had seen something on social media that required immediate discussion.
I still hadn’t fully forgiven her for setting me up with Jack—but after last night, my grudge had dropped by another one percent.
I grabbed it.
Three texts from Aunt Callista.
My heart lurched. I sat up so fast the room spun, thumbing open the messages with fingers that had gone clumsy with fear.
Your grandmother had a good night. Doctor says her speech therapy is progressing.
She asked about you this morning. I told her you were working hard and making her proud.
Call when you can. She wants to hear your voice.
Relief hit me so hard I had to put my head between my knees for a second.
I called Aunt Callista immediately. “There’s my girl.” Her voice was warm, that particular tone she used when she was trying to be cheerful despite everything. “I was just about to make your grandmother some of that oatmeal she loves.”
“How is she?”
A pause. I heard the sound of a spoon clinking against a bowl, the soft hum of a hospital room in the background. “She’s tired, baby. But she’s stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery, so I’d say the prognosis is good.”
I chuckled softly. “That sounds like her.”
“She keeps asking when you’re coming to visit. I told her you’re busy with that fancy new job of yours, but you know how she is. She worries.”
“I’ll come this weekend. I promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Pauline. She’d rather you take care of yourself than run yourself ragged trying to be everywhere at once.” Another pause. “You sound tired. Are you sleeping?”
“Just woke up and saw your text, everything is fine,”
“That’s good.” The sound was deeply skeptical, a trait that apparently ran in the family. “Well, I’ll let you go. Call your grandmother later—hearing your voice does more for her than any medicine they’ve got in this place.”
“I will. Love you, Auntie.”
“Love you too, baby girl.”
I hung up and sat there for a moment, phone pressed against my chest, breathing through the tangle of emotions that always came with these calls.
I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled toward the kitchen, desperate for coffee.
The morning light was golden through the windows, and somewhere outside I could hear birds singing and traffic humming and all the normal sounds of a world that had kept turning despite everything that happened last night.
I glanced out the window as I passed.
My Honda was parked at the curb.
I stopped. Blinked. Looked again.
My Honda. The one I’d left on a pothole-ridden street in the worst part of the city. I’d completely forgotten about in the chaos of sirens and bodyguards and Jack’s hands on my face asking if I was hurt.
It was here. At my apartment. Parked perfectly parallel to the curb like it had driven itself home and tucked itself in for the night.
Jack.
He’d had someone bring my car back. While I was sleeping, he had made sure I wouldn’t wake up stranded.
My chest pounded hard again. I told it to stop.
A knock at my door made me jump.
I crossed the room and peered through the peephole. Purple hair. An expression of barely contained excitement.
I opened the door.
“Oh my God.” Candy’s eyes went wide as she took in my appearance—rumpled pajamas, bird’s nest hair, the general aura of someone who had not slept nearly enough. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“That would almost be right,” I said.
“That’s not reassuring. Can I come in?” I looked down to see Meatball’s leash wrapped around her wrist.
I took a step back instinctively. “Candy. The dog.”
“I know, I know, but listen—” She turned to face me, one hand up in a placating gesture.
“I have to run to the store and I can’t leave him alone because last time I did he ate an entire throw pillow and the vet bill was astronomical.
I’ll only be twenty minutes. Thirty tops.
He’ll just sit here and be good. Won’t you, Meatball? ”
Meatball looked at me. I looked at Meatball. His tail gave a single, hopeful wag.
“Candy—”
“He won’t move from this spot. I promise. You won’t even know he’s here.”
“I will absolutely know he’s here. He’s the size of a small horse.”
“A gentle horse. A horse that loves you and would never hurt you and just wants to be your friend.” She was already backing toward the door, leaving Meatball behind like this was a done deal. “Twenty minutes. You’re the best. I owe you coffee. Or wine. Or therapy. Whatever you need.”
The door closed before I could protest.
I stood in my living room, staring at the enormous dog who was now staring back at me with those big, soulful eyes that I was ninety percent sure were hiding murderous intent.
“Don’t move,” I told him.
Meatball’s tail wagged.
“I mean it. You stay right there. We’re not friends. This is not a bonding moment. I’m going to make coffee and you’re going to sit there and think about your life choices.”
He lay down with a heavy sigh, resting his massive head on his paws.
I edged around him toward the kitchen, keeping my back to the wall like I was navigating a room full of landmines. He watched me the whole way, his eyes tracking my movements with that unsettling focus that made my skin prickle.
The coffee maker gurgled to life. I stood there watching it, trying not to think about German Shepherds and all the reasons my body insisted on treating every canine like a threat.
Meatball whined softly.
I turned around.
He was still in the same spot, exactly where Candy had left him, but his tail was wagging again and his eyes had taken on a distinctly pathetic quality. Like he knew I was afraid of him—and was personally offended by this fact, determined to change my mind through sheer force of sad-dog energy.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I said.
The tail wagged harder.
“I’m not going to pet you.”
He whined again—a small, pitiful sound that should not have been possible from an animal his size.
“Absolutely not.”
I turned back to my coffee and tried to ignore the weight of his gaze on my back. Twenty minutes. I could survive twenty minutes.
Alice Pearson was gone.
I found out the moment I stepped off the elevator at work—through the whispers and the conspicuous absence of her designer handbag on her desk.
The whispers talked about something like “behavior unbecoming” and “hostile work environment” and other HR phrases that meant Jack Specter had finally noticed what everyone else had been dealing with for months.
I should feel victorious. Some petty part of me probably did.
But mostly I just felt tired. And confused. And completely unprepared for the other thing I needed to do today.
Thank him. Properly. Like a normal person who hadn’t spent years treating him like the villain in her personal tragedy.
He’d saved my life. He’d driven me home. He’d had my car delivered to my apartment while I slept. I owed him gratitude at least.
I tried three times before lunch.
The first time, I made it all the way to the elevator before my heart started doing something ridiculous and I convinced myself I should wait until I had something work-related to discuss. You know, to make it less awkward. To give myself cover.
The second time, I actually got to his floor, but his assistant said he was in a meeting and would I like to leave a message? I said no and fled back downstairs like the building was on fire.
The third time, I walked past his office, saw him through the glass wall on the phone, and immediately pretended I was looking for the bathroom.
On the executive floor. Where I had no business being.
The assistant gave me a look that suggested she was reconsidering her assessment of my intelligence.
This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman. I could say two words to Jack Specter without having a complete nervous breakdown.
“Thank you.” That was it. That was all I had to say. Two words. Six syllables. A toddler could manage it.
But every time I thought about standing in front of him, looking into those blue eyes, acknowledging out loud that he had done something good for me—my chest got tight and my palms got sweaty and my brain started generating an endless list of reasons why this could wait until tomorrow. Or next week. Or possibly never.
By five o’clock, I had given up on subtlety.
I gathered the weekly reports I was supposed to submit anyway—perfect cover, completely legitimate reason to visit his office—and marched toward the elevator before I could talk myself out of it.
My heart was pounding in my ears.
The executive floor was quiet, most of the staff already gone for the day. Golden evening light poured through the windows, painting everything in shades of amber and honey. I walked past the assistant’s empty desk and stopped at the door to Jack’s office.
It was open.
He was inside, leaning back in his chair, facing the windows. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Tie loosened. Hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. He looked tired, and for some reason that made my chest ache in a way it absolutely shouldn’t.
I knocked on the doorframe.
He turned and his eyes found mine, “Pauline. Come in.”
I stepped inside. Aware of every inch of space between us, every breath he took, the way his gaze tracked me as I moved.
“I have the weekly reports.” I held up the folder like a shield. “Figured I’d drop them off before I left.”
“You could have emailed them.”
“I could have.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “But you didn’t.”
I cleared my throat. “I wanted to thank you. For last night.”
“Thank me for what?”
My fingers tightened on the folder. “You know what.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Of course he couldn’t just accept a simple thank you like a normal person. He had to make me work for it, had to watch me squirm.
I took a breath. “Thank you. For showing up. For getting me out of there. For driving me home.”
The smugness faded. Something else took its place—softer, and somehow more dangerous.
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he said quietly. “I’d do it again. A hundred times. A thousand.”
The words landed somewhere in my chest and stayed there. I didn’t know what to do with them. Didn’t know how to respond to this version of Jack who was constantly burrowing into my skin.
“That’s it, I came to extend my gratitude.”
He smiled—bright and absolutely charmin, his eyes were lighter.
“Well,” he said. “If you really want to thank me properly, I have a proposal.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret asking?”
“There’s a charity gala Saturday night.” He shrugged, but his eyes were intent on mine. “I could use the company.”
I stared at him. “You want me to go to a gala with you.”
“I want you to come as my guest.” That smile again—weaponized, and he knew it. “Think of it as an experiential thank you. Much more meaningful than words.”
“I already thanked you with words.”
“And I appreciated them. But imagine how much more you could express through the medium of formal attire and awkward small talk with hedge fund managers.”
I felt my mouth curve into a smile I tried to figh. “That sounds terrible.”
“It will be terrible. That’s why I need moral support.” He tilted his head, studying me. “Unless you’re afraid of a little champagne and philanthropy.”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Prove it.”
We stood there, locked in some kind of standoff, and I could feel my resolve weakening. This was a bad idea. Going anywhere with Jack Specter was a bad idea.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” I said. “And before you offer, I’m not letting you buy me a dress.”
“What if I loan you one? Technically that’s different from buying.”
“That’s not different at all.”
“It’s completely different. You’d be borrowing. Like a library book. A very expensive, designer library book.”
“You’re impossible.”
His smile widened. “Saturday. I’ll send details. And something to wear that you can return immediately afterward, thereby maintaining your moral high ground.”
Every sensible part of me was screaming to say no.
“One evening,” I said instead. “That’s it. And then we’re even.”
“Completely even. Debt fully discharged. I’ll have my lawyers draw up the paperwork.”
“You’re not funny.” I said but I was almost chuckling.
He was. That was the problem. He was funny and he’d saved my life and I was standing in his office trying not to notice the way the evening light caught his jaw or the warmth in his eyes when he looked at me.
I was in so much trouble.
“Saturday,” I said. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I turned and walked out before I could say anything else stupid.
A charity gala. With Jack. In a dress he was lending me, at an event full of people I had nothing in common with, spending an entire evening pretending I wasn’t terrified of how much I was starting to feel.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Saturday. 7pm. Car will pick you up at 6:30. Try not to overthink it.
I stared at the screen. Typed back:
How did you get this number?
I own your company. I have access to HR files.
That’s an abuse of power.
Probably. See you Saturday.
I put my phone away and walked out into the evening air, and I was smiling and I refused to think about what that meant.
One evening. That was all. Nothing complicated. Nothing dangerous.
How much damage could one evening possibly do?